The Emissary Pt. 1

The Emissary Pt. 1

The Spoil Shore, twenty five miles due North of Babel is a lost and lonely place, unique in that so few people go there or speak openly of what went on there during the early years of tribal life creation. So few are allowed to. It is a nowhere place, closed to all. A never-existed place where the Unions offload their biological spoil, their failed experiments, abandoning them in the vain hope that the reefs will provide the kind of end for them that tribal law so often forbids, or else allow them to flourish in strange and unexpected ways, unchecked and unhindered, as Mal-forms, genetic aberrations, rogues.

There were kites above the Northern jetty of Trader’s Heal when I arrived. Wind Thieves, designed to generate power from their movement. The tiny settlement took what it could from whatever source it could find. Other, more ominous forms swam amongst them. Sand Sharks circling and glimmering like shoals of minnows, brittle and bright, a reminder of how the local eco-system had devolved and finally settled into a state of constant flux.
Named after the debilitating blisters suffered by those on desert convoy, Trader’s Heal was a tenuous place, a Coastal Authority constituency by name alone. Really not much more than a loose collection of ancient buildings served by a rock jetty and a wind powered generator. As a heritage settlement its days were numbered. The tribes had attempted Claim on more than one occasion for the simple impertinence that it occupied a rocky lip that jutted into the Spoil Shore like an elbow in the ribs. A prized position for Matteus. It was only a matter of time though, before the denizens of the reefs, the Sand Sharks and who knew what else began to expand into the area.

I found the Matteus waiting for me by the condensation tower at the far end of the jetty, seemingly engrossed in the movement of the Sharks. The shoal had coalesced about three miles out, wheeling and spinning madly upon the wind, folding over and into itself like kneaded dough. It seemed impossible for them to form a shape that was not perfectly graceful. A delicate vision of order pulled from chaos. I recognized the pattern to their behaviour, saw signs of a hunting convention, territorial demarcation, followed the motion as they strafed the reefs and rose out over the Western gradients. The strange ray-like creatures would almost certainly have a roost out there. A shelter to spend the nights. A place to hide from god knows what else prowled the labyrinths.
“Do they ever attack?” I said.
Matteus nodded to the line of poles arranged on the sand, running parallel to the jetty. I noticed the lenses atop each one, shrouded and patient for the time being, waiting for a timely moment to unleash their pent up fury.
“High Way Men?” I said.
“The one and only tribal concession.”
“Presumably they still have control over them?”
“They think they do. We managed to break into their Mainline, found provisions for tribal overrides, priority ciphers. We installed a few surprises of our own. For when the time comes, you understand.”
We walked through the covered walkways that led out to the Shores. The day was bright and clear. The horizon danced with transparency, revealing the lonely remnants of the tribal testing stations aligned along the headland. Where once they had designed life, now the shattered battlements were used as isolated holding cells or simply as killing vaults, although who would admit to that? I spotted totems among them. Sun Dogs, Spinning Marys, warnings to the casual visitor, as if such a thing was an issue. There would be hidden devices that made certain it wasn’t. Sleeping Sentries, Inferometers, Sense Engines. All things that made a discrete visit on foot next to impossible. And yet, despite this, Matteus was still managing to break in, was still gathering information on what they had been up to.

Matteus’ home, Lizard Point, was an old sandstone bastion perched upon a rock spur at the very edge of Trader’s Heal. By necessity it had been built in an age when thick walls meant security. Those attributes were obsolete now when the threat of destruction so often came in the form of orbital assets that could place a Lance strike upon the head of a pin.
Still, Matteus had updated it, modernised it with tech, climate control, limestone interiors and terrazzo flooring. There was no escaping its heritage however, the way the walls trapped the night chill and carried it forth into the day like a secret gift. A memory trapped within stone.
“When was the last time you visited the Shores?” he said, eyes shining with excitement.
“Not for a year or two, and only as part of an official delegation.”
“A grudging admission in the name of openness? Escorted and no doubt steered away from the more damning failures.”
I nodded.
“This should make up for that. My family are away until this afternoon. The house is proofed against gain monitors. We can talk freely. Come.”
He led me up to his study, a room that was dark and lined with bookshelves. The smell of dried leather had become trapped there, fermented by the sunlight until it infused every nook. He moved to the window and threw the wooden shutters.
Sunlight dazzled, cast flares and aurorae that hid the gardens in blinding spills of light. The desert was all there was, an abstract patchwork of ochre smudges and salt whites, all fragments and lines running into lines, spread out like a work of art as if some impressionist painting, a Klimpt perhaps, or a Matisse, had been shredded upon the wind. The rolling dunes appeared to falter amongst serrations of minerals, crumbling and wind abraded topographies. The reefs glistened like crushed cellophane, formed transverse swells, maddening labyrinths that led the eye one way and then the other in endless repetition that, at first glance, appeared to be the natural geography of the place. Further out the light played stranger tricks. The patterns appeared to converge, startlingly in places, given clarity by distance and perspective, far too regular to be entirely natural. A truth that was only partially correct.
“What do you see out here?” I said.
“Desolation. Magnificant desolation. And exploitation of the land.”
He nodded toward the promenade where a number of traders had set up their wares, huddled over their mats and tables, selling trinkets, shards of Correlate. Knick-knacks dug out of the sand.
“They enter the Shore?” I said.
“The Islanders have an agreement. The tribes tolerate them as long as they don’t intrude too far. They risk their lives for cheap trinkets.”
“And how about you?” I said.
He looked me in the eye, said nothing.
“The Shores are supposed to be secret. They must know of your forays. I don’t understand why the tribes tolerate you.”
“I have evidence of what they do out here.”
“So it’s the threat of blackmail that stays their hand?”
Matteus smiled. I realized that he couldn’t possibly tell me either way. Uncertainty was the only thing staying the tribal hand out here.
“They have a Satellite overhead.” he muttered, “Our very own bird of destruction, dedicated to our cause.”
“Armed?”
“I should hope so. My ego would suffer tremendously if not.”
“Then what makes you stay? Surely the danger to your family outweighs any advantages of being here?”
“We occupy a niche position. Some would say a disadvantaged position but I chose to see it as unique. We have tribal ancestry. Colours, letters of marque that go back seven generations and yet we choose to live separately.”
“A part and yet apart.” I said. “You’re Freebooters?”
“I prefer the term ‘Irregulars’. Our standpoint puts us at odds with the Unions. They see us as traitors, as unpatriotic. My family have owned Lizard Point for four generations. My ancestors were here before they began polluting this place with their genetic spoil and it will take more than idle threats to make us leave.”
“The time for that will come.” I said.
“Oh I’m sure it will, if it hasn’t already. The Mal-forms that come out of the desert: more than you would expect seem to find their way here.”
“You think they’re sending them against you?”
“It’s a possibility. All part of their programme of harassment I’m sure. The sort of thing they excel at.”
I glanced out towards the line of High Way Men waiting to strike at anything that strayed within their sentience envelope.
“What about those?”
“Tribal assets. They are effective but only for as long as they desire them to be.”
“What about proof? If you’re hoping to persuade Hatton to take up your cause, you’re going to need some pretty solid evidence.”
“They’ve not been stupid enough to provide us with that commodity, but that may be about to change.”
He clicked his fingers. The door opened on silent hinges and in walked a young girl, not much older than eighteen at most, her face round and angular, her skin taught over a bone structure that I found strangely fascinating.
“I’d like you to meet Aya.” Matteus remarked, “Aya, this is Sam, the man I was telling you about.”
I stood up, couldn’t help myself.
“Construct?” I exclaimed, immediately wished that I had been more tactful. “A Doppelganger?”
Aya smiled. “Something similar.”
I marvelled at the thought, appreciated the word play, smiled at the old Construct awkwardness with words. Was she new? Was she even a year old? Without a closer examination there was no way to tell.
I watched her cross the room to place the tray that she carried upon Matteus’ desk. She moved serenely, silent like an animal, fleet of foot, light of touch. Then with that task complete she turned and left the room, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.
I waited until I heard her footsteps receding, tried to form words, questions, found them fighting for consideration.
“How long has she been here?” I said eventually.
“Two weeks.”
“You found her out on the Shore?”
Matteus nodded slowly.
“Can you show me where?”
He hesitated, activated a hidden switch. In an instant a holo-display appeared above the desk, a ghost replica of the Shores, old and antiquated, with glitches and imperfections in the playback routine.
He zoomed in with a few deft hand movements, dragged over a moonscape of undulating hills an obvious area where buildings had once been, where cellars had collapsed in upon themselves and gone to seed. I recognised the general location, the Maritime Promenade, its spatial relationship with the old testing stations.
“She was out amongst the P Species, by the Meat Flats.”
He indicated the area with a marker light.
“The testing stations are a long way North of there.” I said.
“At least four night’s walk. Assuming she came from there.”
“She was lucky to have made it.”
“Luck doesn’t begin to cover it.”
“Then she must have come from somewhere else.”
“Where else is there?”
“Could she be a spontaneous form, a metamorphosis from something else? What about the Objet d’art?”
“She’s a standard template Doppelganger, although with several minor modifications, mostly to the structure of the internal organs. If she were a Polybandro it would have shown in the Strain Test.”
“Do you think she’s natural?”
“Come out and say it. Do you think she’s a failed experiment? Do you think she’s been sent against us?”
I paused. “Well do you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to divine. I found her. Remember that.”
“Then the tribes will interpret that as you taking something from the Shores, something that belongs to them. There could be more at work here than bio-warfare. Have you considered the political ramifications? Might they be setting you up for something?”
“They abandoned her Sam, left her to die.”
“You can’t know that. Besides, even in death she would have belonged to the Shores. You know that’s how they’ll see it.”
“And how do you see it? Do you share their mercilessness?”
I smiled, “You wouldn’t have introduced me to her if you believed that.”
Matteus sat back in his chair.
“I get the feeling there’s something else.” I said.
He smiled, “There is another reason why I asked for you.”
“Go on?”
He did it without ceremony, opened a desk drawer and withdrew a scrap of paper. Placed it on the table before me.
“She drew this the day she arrived. It was one of the first things she did.”
I looked at the drawing there, child-like and simple in a way that transcended aesthetic value and went straight for the centre of my being, felt the hammer blow of recognition, the ramifications of its meaning. The drawing was simply a circle, perfectly drawn but divided by three.
“You see now why I want to keep her from the Unions.”

At midday Matteus retired for siesta, encouraged me to do the same. The house lay entombed in sunlight and as was so often the case with that secret country between morning and afternoon, I could not relax. Instead I decided to show myself around the villa, hoped to encounter Aya. There were questions about her presence that I needed answers to, if only to allay my own curiosity.
The record for survival on the reefs was three days, set by the young researcher Alison Hodge when her Drone Craft had crashed. The accident had killed the rest of her crew and created a diplomatic storm. Hodge had only survived because the flight had been Navy sponsored. The crew had been armed. She had been able to fend off what came out of the reefs at night.
Aya by contrast had been unarmed or at least had appeared to be.
I wondered how far she had travelled, how she had managed to survive on the Shores. Then there was the message itself. She knew, knew the obsession by which I had come to live. Or at least had been party to it, perhaps scribed with it in the same way as I had been.
Despite my best efforts I was to be disappointed. Aya had seemingly vanished into sunlight, blown to powders upon the breeze. The house was silent, seemed to wait in the mid-morning heat, in expectation perhaps that something might happen.
Instead, I took the opportunity to inspect the rest of Trader’s Heal, consoled myself with the thought that I might at least uncover where Matteus had been slipping into the reserve.

It did not take long to walk the length and breadth of the settlement. The criss-crossed lanes and connecting alleyways could only lead to one revelation, spilling their sojourners out upon a view of the surrounding desert. I began to get the impression of Trader’s Heal as a ship, cast adrift and already abandoned by most of the occupants. It was about the same shape and size, a wind abraded lozenge, a brake for the sand to drift against and eventually grind down. The concrete perimeter only delayed the inevitable. There were far too many empty buildings, their outlines softened by the dust, facades covered with rusting grilles, darkened interiors strewn with Unionist propaganda, the usual missionary leaflets.
I stood on the Western promenade, looked out over the sweeps. The High-Way-Men stood tall and deadly, their blind, dispassionate eyes regarding the reefs. Beyond, buttresses and columns of silica stood like stone trees, a forest in any other light, possessing an alien stillness despite the heat. Beyond them I spotted Correlates, the hint of an Objet d’art, a Trellis slowly consuming the remains of an old building, wrapped around it like some gigantic echinoderm. Nothing moved.
The land was so clearly in flux. There was change going on, a constant battle between the rejects and the rejected. Only the Sand Sharks seemed to have stabilised here and that, I suspected was only because they had been bestowed with the gift of flight.
I studied the sweeps for signs of monitoring, saw nothing obvious, knew that the tribes would be recording this somehow. Satellite observation perhaps. Matteus’ bird revealing its true purpose.

It was the shot that brought me out of my reverie, shattering the stillness. More followed in rapid succession. The sound set my heart racing, seemed to emanate from the Southern tip of the town, from Matteus’ villa itself.
I started along the promenade, watching all the time as the Sharks began to gather and sweep maddeningly, a sure sign that something had peeked their curiosity. I saw one detach itself from the group, dive at frightening speed. A fraction of a second was all it took for the nearest High Way Man to sense its presence, calculate its trajectory and take action. There was an ear-splitting crack, something that sounded like a whip as the air was rendered in two. A brief, sun-like flash as the creature was vaporised. A second later all that remained was a dissolute residue that hung upon the air and soon faded. It was a startling display and infinitely wasteful. Such was how the tribes regarded what lived here.
I crested the stairs that led up to Matteus’ villa, saw the young man on the terrace there, or rather heard him. Three reports in quick succession, followed by three more. The Sharks appeared not to notice, startled by the demise of one of their number or perhaps planning something more. They wheeled this way and that as if to taunt, as if to ram home the point that every shot had missed.
The young man saw me, cradled the ballistic in his arms.
“I didn’t know they attacked this place.” I said.
“Just about everything out there does. They don’t get past those, though.” He nodded out to the line of High-Way-Men waiting like a line of Dragoons on the sand.
“A brutal necessity but they work. Most have learned to stay away?”
He kept his attention on the flock that dived and whistled not fifty feet above our heads.
“My father told me you were here somewhere.” He offered a hand to shake. “Thollum.”
I shook his hand, nodded at the ballistic.
“Your rifle?”
“Part of my father’s collection. I hope I didn’t disturb you. I shoot most afternoons. It keeps me sharp.”
I wondered how many shots on previous mornings had found their mark.
“Always against the sharks?”
“Not always, although they’ve come to remember me.”
“Wouldn’t that give them some semblance of intelligence?”
“Possibly, but they don’t test the defences. They don’t probe for weak points as you’d expect. Their intelligence is more dog-like. Once a behavioural pattern has been imprinted, they don’t deviate. They become predictable. Attempts like the one you just saw are a rare occurrence.”
“Have you managed to dissect any?”
“The Way-Men leave little worth dissecting.”
“Your father told me that you have problems with more than just the Sharks.”
“That’s true.”
“What happens to them?”
He looked at me, smiled. “My father has a hobby that the Unions can’t help but indulge.” He fired three more shots, more for effect than anything considered. “Ask my sister to show you around the crypts. You might find them more fascinating than I do.”
He nodded to the young woman only now approaching us across the terrace.
“I hope my brother isn’t boring you with his bravado.”
“Just watching the Sharks.” I said.
“They’re more of a nuisance than a danger.” She smiled.
“So your brother was telling me.”
“Sam, this is my sister, Maria. Maria this is father’s guest.”
“Pleased to meet you. Father says I’m to show you around the gardens, give you an insight into the sorts of things we have to deal with here.”
“Did he?” I smiled, “Well, whatever Matteus thinks is best.”

“So what’s Aya’s story,” I said, “She’s the obvious part that doesn’t fit.”
“Father found her out among the Serrations. Nothing out that way lasts for very long. The other life forms make sure of that. The Shores are self-policing in that respect. We assumed she was a failed experiment, although getting any information from her has been next to impossible. She’s not the most talkative of creatures.”
“She’s lucky to be alive.” I said.
“Of course, although we’ve no idea how long she was out there.”
Maria led me through the walled gardens that formed the Western reaches of Matteus’ villa. The courtyards were banked with vegetation, laid with green lawns and tended to by mist sprayers. Here and there, archways of eroded sandstone revealed hidden orchards, gave way to dusty arboretums, secrets folded within secrets, obviously lovingly tended by Matteus’, despite the constant threat that hung over them.
“Your father mentioned that you get the occasional visitor.” I said.
“Is that the word he used? Visitor?”
“What would you use?”
“Invader? Assailant?”
“Anything dangerous?”
“The tribes only discard those things that they think are dangerous. My father is convinced that the Unions are sending their failures against us. My brother swears that Aya is their latest attempt, a weapon that hides its true purpose until the point of use. Watch where you’re walking.”
She held up an arm, stopped me in my tracks.
“Don’t want to get too close.” she said, “This one is uniquely nasty.”
“What?” I said.
“Look.”
I looked, saw only the bank of vegetation, the plants that had grown in thickets, saw something hidden amongst them. A short, thick, trunk, half concealed by creepers and vines. Giant spines appeared to radiate from the top, narrow and flexible like whips, armed with barbs and hooks, dagger-like protuberances that could have easily been taken for teeth. More radiated along the ground, so gracefully distributed that the trunk resembled an easy couch.
“I-See-You.” I said, marvelling at the way in which the old man-eating tree myth had become a fearful reality.
“Ya-te-veo.” Maria translated, “Impossible to remove. The spores are tenacious. You kill it, it comes back. You burn it, it reappears elsewhere.”
“Incredible.”
“Unforgivable.” Maria hissed, “The villa is more vulnerable than other parts of the town, but you see now what we have to live with, a series of unrelated species who possess intricate and quite delicate interdependencies.”
“You think they’re evolving, learning?”
She thought for a moment, nodded, “If they are it’s quite unlike anything that we’ve seen before. For the first time in history a whole series of species are evolving not only in response to the constraints placed upon them by an environment, but in a coordinated and cross-referencing way. Those dependencies are not only preserved but quite often strengthened. It’s almost as though the Constructs here are consciously selecting their own evolutionary path.”
The thought was exhilarating and yet terrifying in its implications. Had the tribes lost control of their experiments?
“And what about Aya?”
“What about her?”
“Is she something else that has taken root here?”
Maria shrugged, “Who knows? To be honest I try to have as little as possible to do with her. There’s a coldness about her that I find intimidating.”

There was no way for me to tell what I would find when Maria led me down the narrow flight of stone steps into the crypts beneath Lizard Point. The chambers were cooler than the gardens above, insulated from the worst excesses of the day. The walls were verdigrid and in places, moss had found a moist spot within which to flourish. The smell was that of a dry stone riverbed, the muddy odour of creaks and tributaries and lost humidity.
I moved into the gloom, found myself amongst a collection of glass cabinets, dusty and frosted with age. It was what they contained that caused me to gasp, almost step back in horror.
This was Matteus’ collection, his menagerie, his record of battle. Mal-forms. All quite dead. A sad record of biological failure, abomination and atrocity. Here were forms with obvious deformities. Mouths that had far too many teeth. Limbs that were articulated in all the wrong places or not at all. Predators, killers, weapons that had misfired. The wear and tear they displayed attested to their amateurish preservation: missing limbs, threadbare fur, torn skin. A few even displayed the all too obvious wounds of the Ballistic that had felled them. Failed experiments they may have been, but the room represented a movement, a stride towards recovery.
“Originals?” I whispered, “True Life?”
Maria nodded and I could only wonder what Aya must she have thought of this place. She must have hated him for this. If there were any emotions beneath that all too perfect exterior, there must have been a terrible grief for her fallen brethren. I wondered if that was all there was, if that was all it took.